


The Grief at the Center

by Mscrwth



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s02e13 Irresistible (X-Files)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28714806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mscrwth/pseuds/Mscrwth
Summary: Mulder and Scully after their first run in with Pfaster
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	The Grief at the Center

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, just borrowing from CC, GA, DD & co. The title comes from a poem by Margaret Atwood, quoted at the end.

* * *

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It began when everything was over, after Pfaster had been led away and she'd cried in Mulder's arms, after she'd shooed away the Paramedics saying she was all right, after she'd convinced Mulder of the same and he'd helped her to the car.

It began after, when he buckled her into the passenger seat of their rental car and she leaned over and surprised him with a kiss, muttering something unintelligible that sounded like "Go team" but was lost in the sensation of her lips grazing his cheek.

Stunned he gaped at her, mumbling, "What?" and feeling like a fool.

"Forty yard line, Mulder. You and me. guess we won huh?"

"Yeah -- "

"Good, I'm glad."

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They made their way back to the hotel in silence, Mulder watching the road disappear underneath the hood of the car, hands tight on the steering wheel, eyes focused on the road ahead, Scully watching the trees zip by on her side of the car, forehead pressed to the window.

He threw her sideways glances from time to time, hoping to catch her eye but unwilling to be the one to break the silence. He wanted desperately to talk to her but was afraid that if he pushed her she would clamp up. The way she'd clung to him as she sobbed out her fear and anger after her rescue had been the most she'd ever showed him in terms of her feelings, and he didn't want her to shy away from him. Not that she was unfeeling; on the contrary, she'd always hidden her emotions though. He'd known of them through glances and gestures, the timbre of her voice and the slant of her generous mouth, just how much she felt, how hard some of their cases hit her. Still, her grief was always for others, righteous anger at the monsters -- both human and otherwise -- that they encountered, empathy for the victims, care for the loved ones left behind. But she always kept her walls up and kept everyone out when she was the one hurting and in need. Her father had died, and she'd been back to work the next day, she'd been missing for three months only to show up near death and with no memory of what had happened and she'd insisted on coming back as soon as possible.

He'd so gotten used to her reticence, that the way she'd let him hug her earlier had taken him by surprise, and shaken him deeply. Her whispered confession and soft sweet kiss had confused him further but he'd decided not to question any of it.

In the privacy of his mind, he'd resolved to let her take the lead. He'd almost lost her again and he didn't know how to handle it yet again, so he'd decided to let her do the handling and follow where she led them. Who was he, after all, to have any say in where they went from here. He was the one who'd let her be taken. It seemed as though her glorious red hair and dramatic blue eyes served as a beacon for every kind of lunatic they encountered, drawing them towards her like moths to a flame, and he had allowed it, hadn't been vigilant enough. He was a profiler for god's sake, the best in the business, the golden boy, and he'd just let that bastard Pfaster take her and tie her up and almost kill her. Enough, no more, this was the refrain running through his brain, enough, no more. He wouldn't blame her if she got out of the game at this point. A small, secret part of him wished she would, would spare him this heartache, a much bigger, better part of himself hoped she would get out for her own sake. His head told him it would be for the best, his heart prayed that she would stay with him after all, no matter what.

He signaled a left when they neared the turn off to their motel and cast another furtive look in her direction. Her eyes were still closed and from the rhythm of her breaths he guessed she was sleeping. She'd always been able to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, during stakeouts and long car trips, plane rides and even recently in a helicopter en route to Mount Avalon. He had always envied this particular character trait. Sleep had never come easy to him and nowadays he was only ever capable of catching any amount of it when holed up in a hotel room with her safely in the next room. Even with her facility at nodding off at the drop of a hat, he wouldn't have though she would have been able to drop off under these circumstances though, she must have been exhausted, physically as well as emotionally.

A wave of anger swept through the ravaged territories of his heart when they passed under the motel's neon welcome sign and it's lights revealed the scrapes and bruises her fight with Pfaster had left her with. Anger directed at himself, mostly, for letting her convince him that she didn't need any medical attention, was perfectly fine, she'd been able to walk out of there under her own steam after all. The fact that she had been so emotionally fragile had convinced him to play along with her, but now he regretted his decision. She looked so pale and hurt; maybe a night in hospital would have been the wiser choice, even if it went against her wishes. The bruise on her forehead looked particularly painful and could very well have led to a concussion. Who knew what other wounds she was nursing?

He almost turned their car around to head off to the nearest hospital after all, but she'd made him promise to take her straight to the motel and the thought of how angry and disappointed she would be if her reneged now kept him from following the impulse. Instead he drove to the back of the motel and parked the car as close to his room as was possible. They'd still need to traverse a good few feet of concrete in the downpour but his coat would keep her dry at least.

He leaned in close to her and breathed in her scent; up close the bruise on her forehead looked even worse, the scrape on her chin bloodier than he remembered it. Tracks like tears reflected on her skin from the rain streaking the windshield. A lock of hair had fallen over her face, caressing her cheek, and he reached over and pushed it behind her ear. His touch was softer than clouds, softer than the whispers of angels, but still she woke with a start and for a moment, her eyes flashed naked terror at him.

He withdrew his hands and his presence, and instead reached out to her with his voice, anchoring her. "Scully, it's just me. We're at the motel, you awake enough to brave the rain?"

She nodded and he physically saw her shutter her fear behind a mask of normalcy.

"Yeah, I'm awake, I'm fine," she said as she straightened in her sear. On the surface she sounded all right, like there was nothing at all wrong with her, or them, or the world in general, but his quick eyes caught the wince she tried to hide by casually reaching over to unclasp her seatbelt. "Let's go."

He undid his own seatbelt and ran around to her side of the car, arriving just as she pushed open her door. Reaching in he caught her elbow and helped her out of the car, ignoring her glance, and the message it contained.

<Back off, Mulder, I can do this. >

He didn't doubt it for a second but he needed to help her for his own benefit, to soothe his own wounded spirit.

He used his coat as an umbrella and they made their way to his door in silence. It was just a few steps and still he was half soaked when they arrived there, but the door was thankfully sheltered underneath the second floor balconies. They were relatively protected from the downpour as he produced his key and opened the door for her.

"Get in out of the cold and the rain, Scully," he said, hand on the small of her back, ushering her in.

"This is your room, Mulder." She cast an enquiring look over her shoulder, left eyebrow raised, a question mark more eloquent than mere words could ever hope to be.

"You noticed that, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I was hoping you'd agree to stay in my room tonight."

"You don't have to worry, I told you I'm fine."

He tried with all his might to keep his tone light but some of his anger still seeped through, like blood through a bandage. "You just keep telling yourself that, maybe you'll start to believe it."

She was with it enough to read his tone and divine his mood, and stepped into the room. Stopping just inside, she leaned back against the wall and tried for some levity of her own.

"That's the general idea, yeah."

His breath exploded from him in a belly laugh such as he'd rarely let fly.

"That wasn't all that funny," she added, a frown like an exclamation mark furrowing her brow.

"I know." He looked at her and his amusement fled faster than a bank robber when the alarm sounds. "Just humor me for a bit, okay?"

Without a word she moved further into the room, then stopped after she'd taken a couple of steps and stood staring down at the foot of his bed, looking so forlorn that his heart cracked some more, the fault lines now spreading all the way down to the pit of his stomach.

"Thanks for the offer Mulder, but I need to be on my own tonight," she said, her eyes pleading for him not to put up a fight.

He didn't. "You don't have your key," he said instead, not much of a fight anyway, more a token protest.

"I think the connecting door is still unlocked."

She had him there. The first thing they did after they checked into any motel, was unlock the connecting doors -- experience had taught them they might need the easy access -- the last thing they did when checking out was lock them.

"Scully..." He moved to stand between her and her escape hatch and took her hands in his. His thumb swiped ever so lightly over her slender wrists, trying to erase the ring of violent bruises left there from where Pfaster had tied her up. She shivered at the pressure his gentle touch put upon her damaged flesh and studiously avoided looking in his eyes.

"Mulder, please."

There wasn't anything to say to that, no argument that could stand up to her pleading tone, no speech that would weigh heavier than the tears that threatened in her eyes, so he simply stepped aside and mustered a smile.

"Okay, go. I'll see if I can rustle up a clean shirt from my overnight bag for you to sleep in tonight."

She nodded and walked past him, still avoiding his eyes. As she stepped through the connecting door into her own room he could swear he heard her breathe a soft "Thank you."

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Scully moved into her own room but left the connecting door open, as much for her own peace of mind as Mulder's. She knew he'd be his over protective self for weeks, until this last horror faded into the background as every other horror they'd been through had. When a nagging voice at the back of her head, just behind her ears, told her that this one just might not go as gently into the night, she silenced it with a sharp command.

<Shut up! >

She made her way towards the bathroom, kicking off her pumps and shedding her jacket as she went, stopping at the foot of the bed to pick up the bathrobe she'd left lying there yesterday evening. As she walked into the bathroom she could hear Mulder rummaging in his room, going through his overnight bag. The familiar sounds of him puttering about in the other room comforted her like chocolate, fortified her like a heady shot of whiskey.

She was rather proud of herself when the sight of the bathtub only made her shudder a bit.

<Don't look! >

So far so good, just keep moving, do one thing and then the next, unbutton your blouse, slide it off your shoulders. Her hard won control almost shattered like fine china against a wall when she stepped out of her slacks and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She'd been counting herself lucky earlier, when it appeared she'd gotten away with just some bruises and no broken bones, but seeing the extent of the bruising now made relief quickly segue into concern. Her dust up in the car and headlong fall down the stairs, trying to escape from Pfaster, had done more damage than she had originally thought in her adrenaline-enhanced euphoria at escaping with her life.

Contusions, so deep they were black as midnight in places, wrapped themselves around her hip, streaking up towards her lower ribcage and down to where they ended roughly mid-thigh.

This was seriously going to slow her down, and there was no way she was going to be able to keep this from Mulder.

She turned sideways to get a better view of the bruising spreading across the back of her leg and winced at the throb of pain as her contorted posture pulled at the abused flesh of her hip and lower torso. She gingerly palpated her chest and with a sigh of relief determined that her ribs weren't cracked, no green breaks or anything serious, just more bruising. It still hurt to breathe too deeply though.

Undecided, she stood gazing at her reflection for a long moment, wondering what to tell Mulder. She could maintain to him she was fine, but that would be tantamount to lying to him. She didn't want that, and guessed anyway that he would see through her charade in no time. On the other hand he was sure to whisk her off to the hospital were he to get a look at the full extent of her injuries -- the black and blue map of her left side and leg. Worse, he was bound to think she'd lied to him earlier, when she'd still been thinking she was fine and had convinced him of the same. Physically fine that is, mentally she didn't know where she was, or who she was, or how to deal with what happened to her, or anything else for that matter.

<You're fine! >

Unsure about her next move, she lowered her blouse and the next instant there was no more time to ponder her options when she heard him knock and then heard the doorknob turn.

"Oh, Scully." A choked whisper from the doorway convinced her there was only one option anyway She turned towards him, clutching her blouse closed, and watched him approach; tee shirt in hand, liquid eyes riveted on her hip. 

Deciding to let his worry end at the visible damage, she grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Allowing him a glimpse at her injury would allay his suspicions over her inevitable lack of mobility these next couple of days, and thus would keep the rest of it from him. Something she much preferred, since there was nothing he could do about it anyway. Worrying about her would only aggravate the guilt she knew he was already wallowing in.

"I really am okay, Mulder," she told him, "just a bit sore."

"I'll bet."

"I told you, I'm fine, just a bruise, nothing permanent."

His eyes were suspiciously shiny as he gently stroked a finger over the injury decorating her hip. Even though the touch was feather light, she could not keep herself from wincing at the minute contact.

"Jesus, you shouldn't be on your feet at all should you?" he scolded as he took her hand and led her to the bed. With a gentle push he made her lie down on the comforter and disappeared through the outer door, into the rain, only to return moments later with a bucket of ice. He fetched a towel from the bathroom and fashioned a makeshift icepack. "Tell me Dr. Scully," he continued as he sat down beside her and handed her the bundle, "what would you prescribe if a patient came to you with a massive bruise like that?"

Shifting to rest her weight on her good side, she held the icepack against her bruised hip, and gritted her teeth against the relieved groan threatening to escape.

"Just this, ice to reduce the swelling, rest so as not to make the bruising worse."

"That all?" The guilt in his eyes made her uncomfortable. It was difficult enough for her to shoulder her own part of the blame, she was a trained FBI Agent after all, and she'd let herself be run off the road, let that monster tie her up and terrorize her, let herself almost get killed. And that was after he'd scared her off the case enough to send her back to Washington with her tail between her legs, on a pretext no less - one that had paid off, but still. She'd gone running off to safer ground when the going got tough, talked to a complete stranger like she hadn't been able to with her own partner, for god's sake.

<Shut up! >

That little voice again, behind her ears, keeping her from thinking too hard, from grieving too deep, from feeling too much.

Mulder was looking at her expectantly and she scrambled to recall the thread of their conversation. Ice and rest; that was it.

"That and some extra strength Tylenol perhaps, I had some in my bag, but..."

The image of headlights growing bigger in her rearview mirror rose before her minds eye, sights and sounds unspooling like a movie reel, the screech of tires and crape of metal as she was being run off the road, the sickening feel of the steering wheel escaping her grasp, the stench of burning rubber and the feel of the airbag exploding in her face, darkness.

<Don't think! >

"I'll get it for you first thing tomorrow morning." Mulder's voice brought her back to the here and now, safe in her motel room, alive, whole, more or less.

"You found my things?"

"Yeah, we found your car. Your bags were still in there; they're with Bocks in the evidence locker. Your laptop even, and intact to boot."

"Small mercies."

"Yeah," he said, "but we're still left with no Tylenol. We did pass a Pharmacy on the way here, I could just run out and get you whatever you need, it's only a couple of miles down the highway."

"That would be good."

<Don't go! >

"Will you be okay on your own for a bit?"

"I'll be fine."

<No! >

"You relax and I'll be right back."

"I'll just swoon here, let this melt into a puddle, and wait till you come charging back in on your white horse, Tylenol in hand."

<Please stay! >

"Just call me Lancelot, your knight-errant."

"More like Don Quixote," she joked, trying to dispel her own dark mood.

He smiled at that and some of the tension left his posture. "Funny, Scully."

"I thought so," she said, proud of her moderate success, "Any chance of you buying us some dinner, while you're out?"

"I'll see what I can do," he said, as he got up and moved to the door.

<Don't leave, please! >

When the door clicked closed behind him and she'd heard the key turning in the lock, Scully got up from the bed, went back into the bathroom, stood under the shower for long minutes, letting the hot spray soothe her aching muscles. The water mixed with her tears and hid her grief, even from herself.

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Picking up the Tylenol from the Pharmacy had been a cinch, but rustling up a halfway decent meal at this hour was a different matter altogether. Burgers or Pizza would have only taken another 5 minutes but they wouldn't do just now, he knew her habits too well. Though she would from time to time happily pig out with him on fast food -- his favorite food-group -- sensible food was what was called for on this occasion.

"Scully, it's me," he hollered through the connecting door between their rooms. Not waiting for her reply he pushed it open and stepped through into her room. "Are you decent?"

"Yeah."

"Pity."

She was in the bathroom and he caught a glimpse of her as she closed the last buttons on her pajama top and then reached for the hotel provided bathrobe. It was much too big on her and she looked like a little girl wearing her mother's clothes as she emerged from the bathroom, trailing clouds of steam behind her.

There was nothing of a child in her serious expression however, nothing that had any place in a child's eyes anyway. He watched her, striving for some of that clinical detachment she usually brought to their cases, but found himself incapable of bringing it to bear himself while observing her. Her movements were stiff and it was obvious, from the way she favored her left side, that her hip was bothering her more than she'd let on. He felt her pain as though it were his own; cursed himself for bringing her out on this case and exposing her to danger yet again.

As she came out, brushing her hair into a loose ponytail, he masked his guilt by unceremoniously plopping down on the bed, leering at her when she arched an eyebrow at him. His leer was more of an ingrained reaction than anything else; he wasn't feeling particularly frivolous, felt more than a little uneasy actually at her eyebrow action. In his Scullysaurus the entry beside this particular arch read << tread lightly buster >> and a moment later his interpretation of her expression proved to be correct when she flung her brush at him. Upon closer inspection, there was a glint in her eyes, which added a crooked twist to the eyebrow - a new entry altogether, and one he had trouble classifying. He sat up and threw a curious glance her way, gauging her mood.

To his amazed delight, a slow grin spread over her features. Where did that come from, under these circumstances? Best not to question it perhaps, to go with the current and let her dictate when the banks would overflow, or was this already the first sign of impending mental breakdown?

"Don't be shy," he heard her say, her tone of voice matching her expression. "Make yourself right at home."

Surprised into honesty he admitted, "I am," meaning so many different things, most of which, if her expression was anything to go by, she understood perfectly.

Her smile grew wider and he lost himself in it, looking on as she limped over towards him and keeping his tongue. She sank down on the bed with an uncharacteristic half sigh, half whimper. Concern flooded him again, met up with anger over what had happened -- another close call, another injury -- and a silent war was waged in the battlefield of his heart. Concern won out and he reached into the bag he'd placed on the night table and handed her the Tylenol he'd bought. She took it with a grateful smile, which widened spectacularly when he reached into the bag again and produced a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice, for her to swallow the tablets down with.

She popped two of the pills and took a long draught of the pulpy juice and then leaned back against the headboard. Frowning still, she closed her eyes, relief stealing across her features, and it was all he could do not to reach out and touch her cheek. He ached to let his fingers whisper across her cheek, swipe her hair off her forehead and caress her mouth, let his fingers trail kisses all across her beautiful face. He let his eyes do what his hands lacked the courage to and filed away the heady experience of her lying next to him on the bed, her scent, the exact shade of her lips sans lipstick, the lock of hair -- luckier than him -- that had escaped her haphazard ponytail and was softly caressing her cheek. Images to be added to his Scully library, to be perused later, when holed up in his own room awaiting daybreak and the chance to rejoin her.

After several long moments, one of her blue eyes opened and she nodded in the direction of the second bag sitting on the bedside table. "What's in there?"

"Some sandwiches and fruit, I figured it's too late in the evening to tempt you with a nice, artery clogging, all American Hamburger dinner."

"You know me too well."

"Hardly. Most of the time I feel like I've only barely begun to scratch the surface."

"How so?"

"Earlier in the car for example, what was that all about?" There was no need to elaborate; he knew she knew exactly what he was referring to from the blush that spread across her pale cheeks.

She didn't back down though, despite her obvious embarrassment, admitting, "I decided that, despite what happened, I felt good about us catching the bad guy, and I wanted to share that with you."

"You don't share."

"I know, but I've resolved to change that."

"Wow, must be a full moon out or something huh?"

"Scared?"

"No, I like it."

She smiled at that and turned her attention to her sandwich, tearing into it with enough abandon that he figured she hadn't eaten since being awakened by his call last night, a lifetime ago. They ate their dinner in silence, neither one of them ready to discuss anything even remotely connected to this case. Scully because she was no doubt relegating most of it to the land of denial, Mulder mused. He himself kept quiet because he was still somewhat resolved to follow her lead, though the psychology major in him balked at the thought of not working this through.

When they'd finished their meal, he got up and made his way over to the door connecting their rooms, resolved to keep his promise to himself and fleeing her presence so he could stick to it.

"Night, Scully."

"What? No keeping me up, obsessing over what happened until the wee hours of the morning while I battle mightily to stay awake, only for you to drop off to sleep just when I've gotten my second wind?" He appreciated the effort and the slim opening she'd given him to talk but saw in her eyes that she wasn't ready, wasn't quite up to facing her demons just yet, so he continued on towards his own room.

"Nah," he told her instead. "Time to obsess tomorrow. I just thought we'd do what normal people do and get a good nights sleep for a change."

"That's a change, alright," she murmured, but he'd already disappeared through the door and closed it softly behind him, leaving just enough of a crack that he'd be able to hear her if she needed him.

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As soon as he left, the temperature in the room seemed to drop to freezing, and she crawled into bed, burrowed under the blankets and wrapped her arms around her aching middle, carefully avoiding her bruises. It seemed there was a void there somewhere, where her stomach used to be, this case had blown a great big hole through her and she didn't know how to even begin repairing the damage.

<Don't cry! >

Figuring avoidance was the better part of valor right now Scully drew her knees up to her chest and tried to will herself to sleep, to sleep but not to dream. Still, however hard she tried, sleep would not do her beckoning, not for a long, long while.

<Don't dream! >

When she finally slept she did, and in her dreams she was falling, endlessly falling through the void, hurtling through the air without design, without volition, plummeting through space like a meteorite, leaving stardust for footprints in her wake. Freezing cold, mist everywhere -- and darkness, impenetrable, like a blindfold had been pulled over her eyes, wind rushing through her hair, flaying her skin, current buffeting her this way and that.

Tumbling, all sense of direction gone, no above and no below, heaven and earth, mountains, sky and sea, all lost to her, free falling until there was the sensation of brakes being applied, a parachute billowing open, the pull of gravity easing.

Then it seemed to her the hand of God had caught her, and suddenly she was no longer falling but flying, like an angel through the heavens. For an infinite moment, she was weightless, traveling through the air as if it were her natural habitat.

All too soon, she began her descent, gently drifting towards the earth, floating on the wind like a newborn baby carried in the arms of its mother. The earth grew until it filled her vision, vast oceans and jigsaw continents, imposing range of mountains, dusty desert and verdant forest, brooks, meadows and finally a lake, blue and green and deep like her mother's love.

Cliffs rose all around like sentinels, woods crowding to the banks, ancient trees dipping their roots in the water. A rowboat sat in the center like a pulpit in the nave of a church. She was deposited on the aft seat, a sturdy wooden bench like the one's her father used to make. The gentle sway as the boat rocked with her arrival felt familiar, like slipping into the folds of her mother's coat on one of those cold winter days, when they were all out, welcoming Ahab home after a long stay at sea.

She glanced at the line of trees on the far bank, at the wooden dock reaching out into the lake and the lone figure standing on it, and an overwhelming sense of deja-vu swept through her like the precursor of a thunderstorm, dread and foreboding trailing in it's wake. Right on cue, with the immediacy of dreams, a low mist rolled in from the edges of the lake, rising from the water like steam from a kettle.

She started to propel herself to the shore, using her hands for paddles, fleeing an unseen presence, which seemed to grow from the fog, taking on an uncertain form and looming over her as she labored to bring herself to dry land. There was safety to be found in the figure standing on the wooden dock, she hadn't recognized the outline from so far out, but she knew that if only she could reach it, reach the dock, land her boat there, she'd be safe. The mist would magically lift and all would be right with the world. So she rowed and rowed, while behind her, the mist swirled and coalesced. She rowed and dared not look over her shoulder for fear she would recognize the figure taking shape there.

She rowed and gradually the figure on the dock grew nearer and she realized it was Mulder. She blinked grateful tears from her eyes and Mulder changed into Missy and then her Dad, Mulder again, then her Mom and even herself. Finally, Mulder appeared from the jumble of faces once more, and she cried out his name so he wouldn't change into someone else again. He smiled and relief swept through her like a spring shower and she started to smile back, she was nearly there, and together they would face whatever it was that was rising from the lake. When his smile vanished, she knew her time had run out, knew it from the expressionless expression that took hold of his face. She cast a look over her shoulder and Pfaster swooped down on her, a tidal wave, he had gathered his forces from the mist and the water and the mud and the dead things living at the bottom of the lake. He swept over her like a tsunami and she screamed until his putrescence filled her mouth and nose and made her choke and gag and finally give up her struggles. Pfaster's touch became almost like a caress then, sure of his victory, but as she floated down to the bottom of the lake to be with the dead things, a hand plunged into the water, reaching for her. Questing fingers touched her lifeless ones and a shock like electricity went through her, making her remember herself, remember him, urging her to fight, to never give up on life, on hope, on love.

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He'd installed himself on the other side of the connecting door, slumping down in his bedside chair with a blanket and pillow, feet propped up on the foot of the bed, head coming to rest on the wooden doorframe. Ready to spring into action at her slightest command.

When she started to choke he was by her side, faster than thought, faster than light, faster than sound, yet when he reached her she'd quieted again.

He looked down on her as the moon shone in through the still open drapes and cast it's blue light on her sleep softened features. The halo of her sunset hair competed with the night, chasing away the darkness from her cheeks and brow. Her mouth was ajar and she was snoring ever so softly. A little bit of drool had pooled on the pillow underneath her right cheek, and her long, heavy lashes fluttered, casting intricate shadows across her face as she dreamt her silent dreams.

God she's beautiful, is all he could think, beautiful like Rennes Cathedral, like Da Vinci's flying machines, or a van Gogh painting; beauty seasoned by time, sharpened by experience, tempered by grief, rife with possibilities.

<Do you hear me, Scully? Do you know how you affect me? >

He sat down on the bed next to her, and scrutinized her features, wishing, not for the first time, that he could somehow, magically, peek into her head and see what stuff her dreams were made off. Did she dream of her father, lost to her, or of those three long, lost months? Did she dream of him, dream about past cases, and future escapades, as he did? This is where his dreams turned to most often. Not hot, sticky images of drilling her into the mattress -- though those fantasies put in regular appearances too -- but *them* doing what they had been doing, bantering, guarding each other's backs, quarreling then making up with a glance or a gesture or an unexpected joke.

When she started to fidget again, he put his hand out to still her, aiming for her leg but remembering her injury just in time, and resting a heavy hand on her waist instead. Her eyes flew open at his touch, and a low moan escaped her. She batted his hand away and struggled into a sitting position, face turned away from him. He read her discomfort in the tight set of her shoulders, and moved to stand in front of her, hooking his forefinger under her chin, lifting her face towards him when she refused to look at him.

"What is it, what's the matter?"

"It's nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Scully, please."

"Have you been here all this time?"

"And don't change the subject."

She squared her jaw and her breath quickened as though she was gearing up to do battle. "My hip is just bothering me, it's nothing."

"That would fly if it had been your hip I grasped just now. What gives?"

She didn't answer and he knelt down in front of her and grasped the hem of her shirt - his shirt. He looked her square in the eye, silently asking for permission. She flinched, and, for a moment, he thought she was going to deny him, but then her shoulders slumped. She shrugged, nodded once, and sat very still as he lifted her shirt. Very slowly, he lowered his eyes to her torso, and sucked in his breath in dismay, as he took in the angry bruise, covering her lower ribcage. He already knew it covered most of her hip, but it spread up to cover most of her torso as well. At the sight, anger and concern coursed through him in equal measure. He tamped down on the one, let the other out with a passionate curse.

"Jesus. When were you going to tell me about this?"

Truth, truth, truth now, Scully, please, I need you to tell me the truth always, don't you know that by now. Not just when you're fine and everything is okay and we're happily going back and forth and we've magically found a brief respite from shouldering the weight of the world. I want to hear it when you're feeling lousy, when you're hurt or grieving. I thought we'd been making some progress here, please don't retreat; this is easy, isn't it? It's just your body's weakness you'll be exposing, not your heart or your soul, though I'm hoping you'll entrust the entire package to me one of these days, all of it, not just the pretty parts.

"I wasn't," she began, and at his scowl she stayed him with a hand on his chest, right atop his heart. Her touch stilled his anger like nothing else in the world could. "I wasn't at first, because I'd already told you I was fine. Which I honestly believed I was at the time. Then, when I got a good look at the damage, I debated whether to tell you, but I didn't want you to think I'd lied. Which -- you know -- I didn't, because, big as it is, it's still just a bruise. It's just stiffened up on me during the night and -- "

"You finished?"

"I don't know, am I?"

He couldn't but chuckle at that. "Never in my book." He ran a hand over her ribcage, exerting just a little more pressure than he would normally do -- in those few instances he'd had the opportunity to fleetingly caress her cheek or brow -- and watched her reaction. She flinched a little but did not pull back, looking down at him with steady eyes. Reassured that the damage was ostensibly as limited as she'd made it out to be, he lowered the hem of her shirt, and asked, "Anything I can do for that?"

She procured the little bottle of Tylenol he'd bought and looked up at him, eyes shiny. "Hand me a glass of water?"

He patted her knee, got up, and plucked the glass she'd used earlier from the bedside table. The remains of the orange juice he'd brought her were stuck to the bottom, and he had to rinse several times before he deemed it clean enough to use. When he'd filled the glass he splashed some water on his face, looked at himself in the mirror, flashed a smile that looked more like a grimace, and walked back towards her with a heavy tread.

Scully was still sitting on the edge of the bed, right where he'd left her. He handed her the water, then sat down beside her and watched her swallow two of the pills.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Nightmare?"

She nodded, eyes on her hands where they were clasped between her knees. Mulder's gaze traveled down to watch her right thumb trace intricate patterns in the palm of her left hand.

"Scully, we've avoided talking about what happened all evening, but you know you're going to have to, if not now, then soon."

Another nod. "I guess I do."

He put his big hand over her small, questing digits. "You know I'm here for you, right?"

"I know."

He sank down on his haunches in front of her and ducked his head low, trying to catch her eyes. "Anything, you can talk to me about anything."

She met his gaze then looked away again, staring at the wall opposite her, eyes unseeing. "I saw Karen Kosseff today."

That hurt more than he cared to admit. "I know her, EAP, right? She's very good."

"Easy to talk to."

A twist of the knife; he disregarded his hurt and focused on her though, encouraging her with a soft, "Yeah."

"You're not, you know."

"Why not?"

She shrugged, then looked him in the eye, gaze steady, a half smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I guess you're just too close sometimes." Her eyes drifted away again.

"How's that?"

Another shrug, the smile that had been lurking just out of reach turned into a frown. "I don't want you to know how I think of giving up sometimes, giving in. How badly some of the cases we investigate affect me."

Her hands had come to rest in her lap. He put his own hands atop them and sought out her eyes once more. "Why not? It's only natural that you'd be affected. I am."

"I don't want you to think me weak, that you have to protect me."

"You're the strongest person I know."

"No Mulder, you are."

"Scully, you've saved my butt how many times? I feel like you're constantly pulling my ass out off the fire. Remember Ellens Air Base, Fort Marlene, Arecibo."

Another small smile. "I'm not talking about the physical stuff, Mulder. Risking life and limb is easy, reaching out with your heart and mind is much harder, that's what you do all the time, it's what I can't seem to bring myself to do."

"You underestimate yourself." He got to his feet and sat down beside her on the bed. "I know what it's costs you to put aside your beliefs, your trust in an ordered universe, in God and country, coming to my rescue all those times. How's giving up on all the things you've held sacred for most of your life not reaching out with your heart and mind?"

"Perhaps."

"Scully, take it from me, you're brave in the ways of the heart and mind, as well as in the body. You're the best partner I could've ever hoped to find."

She eased herself back down on the bed, her eyes drifting closed. "Then why do I feel like such a coward?"

He lay down next to her, on his side, his head propped up on one elbow, looking down at her exquisite face. As if aware of his scrutiny, even with her eyes closed, Scully put her forearm across her eyes, hiding. He gently grabbed her hand and lowered her arm until their joined hand came to rest on her collarbone.

"Scully, with what you've been through recently, missing all those months without knowing where you've been, and now captured by that madman, it's no small wonder you'd be scared. It would be a miracle if you weren't."

She turned on her side and to his surprise she pushed back against him until her back was flush with his chest.

"It's not even that," she murmured, voice so soft he had to strain to hear her over the sound of the rain still coming down with a vengeance outside, "it's not the big stuff I'm afraid of, I can't even wrap my head around that yet."

"What is it then?" He was still looking down at her, saw the tightening at the corner of her eye, saw the storm clouds in her eyes, as dark as the rain clouds outside and as heavy.

"It's the little things."

"Like?" he prompted her when nothing more was forthcoming.

"Like, when it all gets too much for me, I light some candles, get out my favorite book and maybe a glass of wine and take a long hot soak. It's my way to relax when the case has been particularly brutal or I'm otherwise in a bad mood. It always helps to unwind like that and I'm just afraid he might have taken that from me."

"Perhaps, but you'll reclaim it, Scully. Bit by bit you'll reclaim every single piece of you he's taken."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you're Scully." She smirked at the ridiculous notion and he smiled at her reaction. "See, there's that grin he stole, and I only reported it missing earlier this evening."

"Thank you."

"I'm here for you, in whatever capacity you need me, punching bag, class-clown, psychologist, friend, even back-rub-boy if you want to give that bathing thing a go."

"I'll be sure to call you, never fear."

"Good, anything to help you relax, anything to help you Scully."

She turned then, suddenly, and looked him in the eye. "What about you?" she asked.

The clouds were still there and he knew they would be for a long time, but eventually they'd dissipate, she was Scully, after all, steel wrapped in gauze, deceptively soft on the outside, tough like titanium on the inside. His Scully -- mind like a steel trap, heart like a whale, face like an angel, and, to complete the package, a body, hot enough to cause a morning erection in a dead man.

He wiggled his hips back a bit, hoping she wouldn't notice she had the same effect on him.

"What about me?"

"What do you do when it all gets too much. I mean I'm sure you must feel the same way I do from time to time. That it's all hopeless, we'll never beat them, everything we suffered through, that everything's been in vain..."

"Sure I do, everyone does." He smiled down on her, head still propped on his hand. Her left arm sneaked under his right and hugged his ribcage.

"You're not everyone."

"True."

"So what do you do, when you don't know what to do anymore?"

He put his head on the cushion next to her and traced the line of her cheeck with his right index finger. "I call you," he said.

She tightened her hold on him, rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes. His hands closed over hers, their breaths mingled, arms and legs and everything they were entwined, they slept.

They figured later that it began right then, that very moment; or at least that it began that night, began with her reaching out to him, began with them sleeping in each others arms, sharing each others dreams - they figured that it began right there, even if they didn't recognize it at the time, even if it took them a while to recognize the change.

In truth it began the moment they met, their connection was forged the very second they first laid eyes on each other. Trained investigators they were, quick on the uptake, their sharp minds able to ferret out the truth based on the slimmest of clues, smarter than anyone they knew -- about everything but the intricacies of their own wilderness hearts.

If they figured it began right then, why challenge them? Let them be, lovers in spirit, mind and soul, if not yet in the flesh. Let them be, safe in each other.

+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+ T H E E N D +X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+

I would like to watch you sleeping,  
which may not happen.  
I would like to watch you,  
sleeping. I would like to sleep  
with you, to enter  
your sleep as its smooth dark wave  
slides over my head  


and walk with you through that lucent  
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves  
with its watery sun & three moons  
towards the cave where you must descend,  
towards your worst fear  


I would like to give you the silver  
branch, the small white flower, the one  
word that will protect you  
from the grief at the center  
of your dream, from the grief  
at the center. I would like to follow  
you up the long stairway  
again & become  
the boat that would row you back  
carefully, a flame  
in two cupped hands  
to where your body lies  
beside me, and you enter  
it as easily as breathing in  


I would like to be the air  
that inhabits you for a moment  
only. I would like to be that unnoticed  
& that necessary.

Margaret Atwood ~

Variation on the Word Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago. Wrote some BSG fics too & decided to move them all over here to have them in one place.


End file.
